Britain's Finest
by Aelore
Summary: I had a dream and James Bond decided to intervene and remind me how awesome he is. Daniel Craig is the said Bond


"This is the place."

"It's a bank," I stated flatly.

He nodded, "A very prestigious bank. Only the wealthy use it."

"And that's because…."

He turned his head to give me a wry smile, "Only the wealthy can afford it."

"Well, ok then."

He went back to studying the building, "Now, getting in shouldn't be a problem. After all, I'm Bond. 007."

"That name rings a bell," I mused just to irk him.

"Humor won't get you on my good side."

"There's such a thing?" I asked innocently.

He ignored me and cocked his gun, "Alright," he opened the door and got out; I followed, "Just follow me, don't tarry or you'll throw me off my game."

"Not a problem."

The inside was like a museum; marble was apparently the chosen material for the rich. It made the floor, ceiling, walls and the pillars that supported the ceiling. People milled around, withdrawing and inputting their money in safes, I suspected.

Bond ignored them all and strode over to a little five foot desk where a man that could have been a waiter at an expensive restaurant pondered over an open book.

"Name?" he asked us without looking up.

"I belong here," Bond answered confidently.

"That's all very good, name?"

"You don't seem to understand," Bond leaned forward, resting an arm on the desk and giving a predatorial smile as the man looked up, "I belong here."

I raised an eyebrow as he gulped.

"Yes-s sir," he managed, extending a hand to the hall behind him. Bond straightened and sauntered down the carpeted way.

"That was interesting," I commented.

"If you act like you belong somewhere, you can get practically anywhere."

"….maybe if you're an assassin that has the capability to look like a wolf when they're starving, then sure, but for real people, it doesn't work that way."

The hall ended and opened to a room where the _really_ fabulously rich and wealthy spent their days. It was a vault. It was a lounge. A rich person's lounge. Silk settee's dotted the room, teacup tables with quaint little matching chairs were set with the ladies daintily sipping tea from china cups and nibbling biscuits from matching saucers. For the men folk there were low cushion seats similar to a La-Z-Boy but not nearly so lower class. They smoked ridiculous cigars and their pudgy hands clasped fish bowls of port that were swirled as they puffed. They were no doubt talking of sports such as fishing and hunting where the only thing they caught was because of their assistants.

Towards the front of the room on the right side was a desk built into the wall where various clerks scurried around. Bond headed in their direction.

"Mingle," he flung over his shoulder quietly as he left. I stared after him. He obviously wanted to do this without me, which was fine since I was doing anything anyway. I was a leech, more or less. The only reason I was here was M needed me gone and, unfortunately for him, he was the one interacting with her when I fell into the mix.

I moseyed over to a circular rack that held magazines and books for the wealthy's pleasure. I turned it, looking at the titles with a blasé air. Behind me, I heard Bond engage the clerks.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes," he answered, "you see, I belong here."

I could picture the teller give a confused start, "Er, yes sir. May I help you?"

Bond was probably leaning forward again, the wolf smile in place and freezing the marrow of the poor soul's bones, "I _belong_ here."

"L-let me get the manager." he hurried away.

"You do that."

I turned to face him, "What are you looking for?"

He put his back to the counter and placed his elbows on it, surveying the scene, "Top secret. Agent stuff. Not for civilians."

"Gee, thanks. Alright, hurry up though, I'm hungry."

The manager came up, "Sir?"

Bond turned, "I belong."

The manager, miraculously, nodded in understanding, "Of course, sir. One moment," and left.

The clerk and I stared after the man then switched our gaze to Bond as he smiled smugly and watched the crowd again. The manager returned with an envelope. Bond took it and slid it inside his jacket inside pocket.

"Let's go."

We left.

"Now, I'm hungry," he announced.

"Me too, I believe I told you that," I said.

"Doesn't matter," he waved a hand dismissively, "but where we're going, people will want to kill me, because I'm Bond. 007. Awesome."

I sighed, "Yes, Daniel, I know who you are."

He jerked his eyes at me in a sharp glare, "You don't approve that I don't drive a stick." The Aston Martin growled as he pushed the petal harder.

"No, Daniel, I'm one of the people who doesn't care, you're the best because…..you're the best."

He nodded, that was acceptable to him.

"Damn, right," he muttered, staring back out the windshield, "Now," he repeated," people will want to kill me, so I'll be in assassin, agent mode. But they won't target you because you're not an agent. Just walk normally."

"O…k?"

He stopped the car in front of a little café. I stepped out and shut the door, looking for threats in the empty landscape. Bond, however, threw the door open and rolled quickly and settled in a stance with his gun cocked and his body low to the ground. I walked to the door and opened it and looked back at Bond. He was done checking for threats and stood up and ran to the entrance. Five feet before he reached the door he took a flying leap and landed in the doorway with a roll and into a stand, straightening his shirt and dusting himself off and walking normally into the café. I rolled my eyes and followed him.

"Don't take a window seat," he warned and sat in a bar chair. I sat next to him. I ordered a grilled cheese with milk and he took a coffee and cherry pie.

So goes the life of an assassin.


End file.
